


don't bite the hand

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Dark, Fingerfucking, M/M, Non Consensual, Prostate Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:05:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You're one of the pies we've got our fingers in." In which I interpret a line from canon in the worst possible way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	don't bite the hand

**Author's Note:**

> Posting here for posterity. I don't know what to say. It just...came out of me. It's like my brain puked on a word processor.

He falls forward on the desk, bangs his chin against the hard wood, feels his teeth rattle. Fingers sink into his hips and he hears papers rustling beneath him as he's dragged into optimal position. He reaches out with both hands, grabs the edge of the desk, feels the sharp edge bite into his palms. There's a big, solid hand pressing at the center of his back, and it almost doesn't need to be there.

Simmons undoes his belt in a matter of seconds, drags Fusco's pants unceremoniously to his knees. The slap across his bare ass makes him cry out and he winces at the sound of his own voice.

"Keep quiet," Simmons says, voice low and authoritative. "You don't want them to hear this."

Logically, he should. He wants it to stop; he wants so badly for this to not be happening. But here he is, thrown over the desk, staring at the light slipping in between the blinds on Simmons' office door, and he knows that there is no help on the other side. He bites down hard on his lip and nods.

Simmons lets him go and, like always, he entertains the hope that this was just a warning. It is, sometimes. Sometimes Simmons just brings him to this point, gives him a couple of smacks, and tells him to get out. Those days are lucky, comparatively.

He hears the soft whisper that Simmons’ leather gloves make when they slide onto his hands, and he knows that today he is unlucky.

“Don’t,” he says, voice weak, throat scratchy. He clears his throat, tries again. “Don’t do that.”

The second slap stings worse than the first and he bites himself trying to suppress a yell.

"'Don't do that'?" Simmons repeats back to him. "Let me tell you something. When I'm the shithead who spends a day tearing apart some burned out apartment complex while our target was hiding out who the fuck knows where, maybe you can tell me what to do, Fusco. But until then, I'm in charge, and you're just some dumb fuck who takes it in the ass."

"I'm sorry," he mutters into the desk. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Simmons slaps him again, and he can actually feel the shape of the handprint on his skin.

Fusco, incidentally, knows the fuck where. The target in question, a witness in a high-profile corruption case, spent the whole ordeal in a police safehouse under the watchful eye of Detective Carter, exactly where Fusco dropped him off.

He's convinced that this shit wouldn't happen to him so much if he wasn't so goddamn nice.

_Slap._ He does a full body cringe, curling one leg up to the rest of his body, and Simmons slams him back down again. Fusco's convinced that the leather makes it worse.

All at once, Simmons is leaning over him, shoving gloved fingers in his face. "Suck," he orders. "Make it good, it's all you're getting."

Fusco opens up and takes two fingers into his mouth without a fight, tries to make them as wet as possible even though his mouth keeps going dry. He knows Simmons is serious about how it's all he's getting. He refused once, back when he was still trying to hang on to pride, and Simmons just shrugged and made him go without.

It hurt like fuck, and the doctors asked uncomfortable questions. He's not doing that again.

So he makes his mouth wet, so when Simmons pulls his fingers out, there's a string of spit from his fingertips to Fusco's lower lip, and he's kind of relieved.

Of course, he's reminded as leather fingertips force their way inside him, it still hurts.

It always hurts, with or without the gloves, with or without real lube, which Simmons used on him exactly once. That was the time after the time with no lube at all. Fusco suspects that Simmons felt bad for him. It doesn't matter; he can't get away from it. The desperation to push him out, the inability to stop him: it means that he gets hurt every time.

Simmons, in to about the second knuckle, curls his fingers.

Then there's this part.

Fusco bites back a moan, thrusts his hips against the desk, hates himself as his dick jumps half-heartedly to attention.

Simmons just laughs at him, finds the spot again and digs his fingers in. "You know," he says, "when I found out how hard this gets you off, I almost stopped doing it? Because this is supposed to be a punishment, not a reward."

Oh, Fusco just wants to hit him for that, but Simmons is just massaging at it now and he can feel a trickle of pre-cum slip down over his dick and he can't punch Simmons in the face or someone will kill him so he just growls with frustration and pushes back into Simmons' hand involuntarily.

"But then I figured," Simmons continues, "maybe getting off is its own punishment. Because, man, do you hate it."

The thin stream of pre-cum is still trickling out of him, uncontrolled, pouring warm and sticky down the inside of his thigh. He's trying so hard to pull himself back together and it just keeps coming steady with every push of Simmons' fingers. And it still hurts, it always hurts, but there's this terrible, incredible feeling as he comes in little waves one after another with no break, overwhelming but never satisfying. He rubs himself, painfully, against the desk, but there's no purchase to be found, nothing but Simmons pulling his hips back roughly and snapping that he'll beat the shit out of Fusco if he comes on his desk.

"It's pathetic to watch," he says, still massaging into Fusco’s prostate. He's not careful, and sometimes Fusco can feel fingernail through the leather. "No spine. No self-control. Even I'm surprised I haven't paid anyone to kill you yet."

Fusco shudders, arches his back, presses his face to the desk to muffle an agonized noise.

"Hey." Simmons gives him a smack on the thigh, just below his ass. "Get it together. I'm not gonna kill you." It’s the backpedaling that makes this weird, the sudden acknowledgment that sometimes they still act like friends.

He feels himself empty out and his knees buckle as Simmons carries on, uninterested in his whimper of pain.

"I could. It’d be really easy.” He pats Fusco on the back with his free hand. “I know a few people who’d do it for free. Let’s just say you’re lucky we’re friends.”

"Stop," Fusco pleads.

"No.”

“It _hurts_.”

“Good. Don’t fuck up so much and I won’t hurt you.” Simmons’ fingers go completely still inside him, not pressing. His voice is oddly soft when he says, “Just know who you’re working for, you stupid son of a bitch. Don’t bite the hand and stop fucking up all the time. It’s easy.”

He mutters, “Yeah?”

Simmons withdraws his fingers, peels the gloves off. “Yeah.” He squeezes Fusco’s shoulder. That means he’s allowed to get up.

Fusco wastes no time pulling his pants back up, buckling his belt. He steals a glance at Simmons, who is looking at him like he’s disappointed or something. He isn’t hard. Simmons never actually gets hard when he does this, which makes Fusco think that it’s probably not about that, for him. “So. Uh. We done?”

Simmons nods. “We’re done. Do better next time, or you’ll get worse.”

Fusco has a limp when he leaves, which isn’t unusual. Since he got shot he limps from time to time anyway. Nobody gives it a second thought as he walks through the bullpen, says hey to the guys he knows before escaping to the bathroom to clean himself up.

He’s just ducked inside a stall when his phone goes off, and while he doesn’t want to deal with it, the screen reads CALLER ID BLOCKED, which means he has to.

“What do you want?”

“Detective.” Finch’s voice is odd, tentative in a way he generally isn’t with Fusco. “How are you?”

“Fine.” His stomach coils with horror and suspicion. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m told it’s how polite conversations generally begin.” There. Same old Finch. “I need you to pull a file for me…”

“Sure. Gonna have to wait for a while, though. I’m out of the office.” He drags his hand through his hair and leans back against the door of the stall.

“I’ll send you the details,” Finch says. “Get it to us soon; there are lives at stake.”

“Yeah.” He sighs. “Hey, do I get paid vacation time or something? A dental plan?”

Finch says, “I understand that you frequently go above and beyond for us, Detective.”

“I don’t think you do.”

“Like I said, I’ll send you the details. Get the information to me soon; by the end of the day it may be too late.”

“Got it.”

There’s a moment of stale air in the space where their conversation ends and Finch would normally hang up. Just an odd, uncomfortable moment before Finch says, gently, “Thank you.” The call ends.

A minute later, Fusco is still pressing the phone to his ear, like he’s expecting more. “Um. You’re welcome,” he finally says to dead air.


End file.
